[ A little like a cat, Ian cants into the contact with a predictable sort of sweetness, the same tells he's had since they first met in the common space of a suite of hotel rooms. Ian's first Quarry, and Ian's first Quarry party. Friendly, easy physicality until it turned less platonic. ]
Really.
[ Ian's deadpan delivery is exceptionally convincing. It doesn't sound right, but he doesn't know enough about this show to tell otherwise. Program long-abandoned by his attention span Nate focuses on the considerably more appealing person warming his side: the loose curls around his face, the scratch in his voice.
Nate's thumb and forefinger idly massage the back of his neck, under his hairline, incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he finally has privacy to exploit. ]
⧼ Not terribly unlike several years ago, his eyes close after a few seconds of touch. Maybe a housecat isn't a terrible comparison, particularly with the way he tilts his head down a little to offer up more room. ⧽
Mhmm.
⧼ A hummed out agreement. ⧽
You're terrible at them. You're gonna fail the quiz.
⧼ Never mind the fact that he's actively tuning out right now. ⧽
[ It's an idle thing to say, nothing that really matters when his palm slips closer, thumb pressing into the little notch at the base of Ian's skull where it meets his spine. A warm pressure point for warm sentiments, watching the way Ian's eyes slip shut, and a tiny smile edges in as he tries on the best part of the day like soft, weathered jacket. ]
I get the feeling like you're not taking this seriously.
( It's a wry, slow drawl. A few seconds after, he undergoes the arduous task of lifting his head and slitting his eyes open to cut a look over at Nate.
Honestly, he's forgotten what they're even watching right now. He's comfortable, a little tired, a lot happy Nate's home. It's with that contentedness written in him that he leans over to press their foreheads together, nose nudging nose, eyes closing right back up again. )
I'm leaving you for Alejandro's twin brother.
( A conspiratorial whisper, like he's letting Nate in on a secret. )
He's got a hot air balloon on the other side of the dome.
[ There's a comfort in the proximity that he can't fully articulate, but then, Nate has never been especially talented at saying as much when it isn't thrice-rehearsed for a crowd. For as long as they've known each other, he still manages to get tongue-tied around Ian. Breathing the same air, skin to skin, it's difficult not to be.
He hums instead, mulling it over, greedily inhaling the scent of that stupid shampoo and the oils from Ian's work. ]
You sound pretty committed to this guy.
[ Bumping noses briefly he ducks his head, smile grazing Ian's mouth before he presses a light kiss to the underside of his jaw. ]
Do you call him "Alejandro's twin brother" to his face?
( He loves when they have time. When Nate doesn't have fifteen things to do and places to be overnight, when there's an entire evening for the slow, unhurried parts like this. )
Of course not.
( Obviously. What kind of monster is he?
He tips his chin to make room, and... you know, since he's got the opportunity, stealths his fingertips underneath the hemline of Nate's shirt like he somehow won't notice them passing over his stomach. )
I call him "Alejandro's".
( Brother is his last name.
If you wanted funny you shouldn't have picked this one. Sorry, man. )
[ It's the small, intimate gestures that they know all too well, now. The barest lift of a chin, a furtive glance, a knuckle brushing the back of a hand. Gestures intended to communicate a measure of trust, of mutual respect.
Gestures intended to make his blood pressure briefly spike, as Nate's stomach tenses under that inquisitive contact. ]
Wow, that's bad. Even for you.
[ Says the reigning champion of Crappiest Jokes Told In The Presence of One's Significant Other. Nate's toothy smile grazes Ian's throat. ]
( Except that he's grinning too hard beside Nate's ear to really pull it off, and he's a little preoccupied with the way he's snaking fingertips up Nate's stomach. It's light, it's barely anything, just ghosting over the ridges of muscle and the curve of his ribs.
It's half one of those soft, intimate feel-good gestures, half probing to see if he can't catch a nerve the right way and get him to jolt. Whether it gets his blood pressure up or earns a spasm, either way's a win. )
[ It would probably be easier if Nate wasn't such a goddamn bleeding heart for him, an easy mark to no man except the one at his side, whose exploration is both titillating and clearly trying to earn a rise.
It works, to an extent. The heat swells in his skin like a flush and Nate is pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Ian's pulse when those fingers curl into a ticklish spot and the sound he makes is undignified at best, startling in callused hands with a little jerk. ]
Hey- [ His palm settles at the back of Ian's neck, squeezing gently. ] Watch it.
( An excellent deduction, detective — he is, in fact, trying to earn a rise. When he gets one, the only thing hiding his smug, self-satisfied beaming is the fact that Nate's tucked up against his neck. )
Oh, I'm sorry, was that-
( Is he skirting right back to that little patch of success? You bet your ass. )
Was it- there, that I shouldn't, or- I just wanna make sure. So I know. For the future.
[ All it takes is that arrogant edge in his voice, that knowing satisfaction and Nate is immediately, absurdly aware of the hands up his shirt in a way he wasn't aware of before. Ian doesn't always try to feel him up in the most obnoxious way possible, but when he does-
Nate jerks again, more violently, flinching away from the contact with another sound of discontent that actually pulls his face back from the tantalizing canvas that is Ian's throat. Interrupted mid-masterpiece his free hand grasps for one of Ian's wrists, holding it in place while he levels a look which would probably be more threatening if they weren't less than an inch apart.
Any closer and he could feel that smirk against his own mouth. ]
Ian. [ An unmistakable warning, though not without humor. ] You really wanna go there?
( It would be an outright lie to say Ian's not ridiculously into that warning tone, that clear threat written in his expression. Sometimes he does it just to get that. Most of the time it's for pure selfish delight, but sometimes he's angling to provoke exactly this.
His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
[ His hands have stopped moving, at least, and for that Nate is eternally grateful, but the expression on Ian's face gives him cause for concern. He's delighted, pinched with his teeth in his lip in anticipation, that look of sheer and unbridled glee that Nate loves fiercely for all the devastation it tends to wreak. Up to something, and not of a mind to hide it. ]
Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
( Oooh, damn, that one sounded like it hurt. Nate earns exactly one second of faltering before it's abundantly clear he's fine, and then comes the onslaught. Catching wrist number two means he's yanking wrist number one away, twisting up onto a knee, trying to take the high ground. )
You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
[ He absolutely has the requisite moves, it's just a matter of deciding whether or not he wants to employ them for something as low stakes as Ian wanting to demolish him with tickling. There are worse fates, and it's been a long day, and therefore Nate doesn't altogether mind the new pressure from above, making a show of fading strength in the onslaught. ]
You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
( Nate hits the floor with such exaggerated ham it's a genuine struggle not to laugh. It's become a point of pride to not devolve into cackling whenever they do something like this -- and as well as he's managed to swallow it down in his throat and in his chest, he can't quite stifle the expression on his face.
Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
[ Nate shifts more comfortably beneath him, legs spreading to accommodate, unable to maintain the façade long enough before unmistakable fondness slips through. It's a stupid game but it serves to lighten the load and as Ian ducks his head to press his mouth to the space over Nate's sternum, he sighs. It's the little things he can come back to again and again that make the rest of what he does tolerable, because someone is waiting for him.
And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
[ Nate chuckles, the sound low in the back of his throat as his chest shakes and warm hands start creeping up under his shirt again. The touch is deliberate this time, not tripping over itself to startle him, and the fingers in Ian's hair push dark curls out of his face. ]
Was that before or after the anvil with "ACME" written on it?
[ He inquires politely, relaxing into the floor and bracketing Ian's sides with his knees. The man isn't subtle - never has been, but that's just one of many things Nate loves about him - when he gets that sharp edge in his eyes, intent and soaked in mischief. ]
[ He knows this game, the one of distraction, that soft, soothing voice compelling him with absolute absurdities until it's all he can dwell on and only then does Nate realize his fly is open. Ten goddamn years and he's as predictable as ever, but Nate knows the angle and feels the draft when his hips and stomach are exposed. ]
You know.
[ He says wryly, clenching and unclenching his fists for that brief pull on the hair in his hands. ]
This has got to be the most romantic conversation we've had to date.
[ You know a person as long as they've known each other, and you pick up tells and preferences as easy as breathing. Ian's beautiful head has always had just the perfect amount of hair to curl his hand in and get a good grip, and better still: he likes when Nate does exactly that.
Hard not to smirk at the ceiling, up until hot breath ghosts over his navel. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Really.
[ Ian's deadpan delivery is exceptionally convincing. It doesn't sound right, but he doesn't know enough about this show to tell otherwise. Program long-abandoned by his attention span Nate focuses on the considerably more appealing person warming his side: the loose curls around his face, the scratch in his voice.
Nate's thumb and forefinger idly massage the back of his neck, under his hairline, incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he finally has privacy to exploit. ]
Guess I should be glad I didn't get into soaps.
[ Professionally or recreationally. ]
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Mhmm.
⧼ A hummed out agreement. ⧽
You're terrible at them. You're gonna fail the quiz.
⧼ Never mind the fact that he's actively tuning out right now. ⧽
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[ It's an idle thing to say, nothing that really matters when his palm slips closer, thumb pressing into the little notch at the base of Ian's skull where it meets his spine. A warm pressure point for warm sentiments, watching the way Ian's eyes slip shut, and a tiny smile edges in as he tries on the best part of the day like soft, weathered jacket. ]
Oh, no.
[ Flat, dry, toneless. ]
Anything but that.
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( It's a wry, slow drawl. A few seconds after, he undergoes the arduous task of lifting his head and slitting his eyes open to cut a look over at Nate.
Honestly, he's forgotten what they're even watching right now. He's comfortable, a little tired, a lot happy Nate's home. It's with that contentedness written in him that he leans over to press their foreheads together, nose nudging nose, eyes closing right back up again. )
I'm leaving you for Alejandro's twin brother.
( A conspiratorial whisper, like he's letting Nate in on a secret. )
He's got a hot air balloon on the other side of the dome.
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He hums instead, mulling it over, greedily inhaling the scent of that stupid shampoo and the oils from Ian's work. ]
You sound pretty committed to this guy.
[ Bumping noses briefly he ducks his head, smile grazing Ian's mouth before he presses a light kiss to the underside of his jaw. ]
Do you call him "Alejandro's twin brother" to his face?
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Of course not.
( Obviously. What kind of monster is he?
He tips his chin to make room, and... you know, since he's got the opportunity, stealths his fingertips underneath the hemline of Nate's shirt like he somehow won't notice them passing over his stomach. )
I call him "Alejandro's".
( Brother is his last name.
If you wanted funny you shouldn't have picked this one. Sorry, man. )
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Gestures intended to make his blood pressure briefly spike, as Nate's stomach tenses under that inquisitive contact. ]
Wow, that's bad. Even for you.
[ Says the reigning champion of Crappiest Jokes Told In The Presence of One's Significant Other. Nate's toothy smile grazes Ian's throat. ]
You're lucky I like you so much.
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( A mock-condescending coo. )
That's embarrassing.
( Except that he's grinning too hard beside Nate's ear to really pull it off, and he's a little preoccupied with the way he's snaking fingertips up Nate's stomach. It's light, it's barely anything, just ghosting over the ridges of muscle and the curve of his ribs.
It's half one of those soft, intimate feel-good gestures, half probing to see if he can't catch a nerve the right way and get him to jolt. Whether it gets his blood pressure up or earns a spasm, either way's a win. )
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[ It would probably be easier if Nate wasn't such a goddamn bleeding heart for him, an easy mark to no man except the one at his side, whose exploration is both titillating and clearly trying to earn a rise.
It works, to an extent. The heat swells in his skin like a flush and Nate is pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Ian's pulse when those fingers curl into a ticklish spot and the sound he makes is undignified at best, startling in callused hands with a little jerk. ]
Hey- [ His palm settles at the back of Ian's neck, squeezing gently. ] Watch it.
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Oh, I'm sorry, was that-
( Is he skirting right back to that little patch of success? You bet your ass. )
Was it- there, that I shouldn't, or- I just wanna make sure. So I know. For the future.
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Nate jerks again, more violently, flinching away from the contact with another sound of discontent that actually pulls his face back from the tantalizing canvas that is Ian's throat. Interrupted mid-masterpiece his free hand grasps for one of Ian's wrists, holding it in place while he levels a look which would probably be more threatening if they weren't less than an inch apart.
Any closer and he could feel that smirk against his own mouth. ]
Ian. [ An unmistakable warning, though not without humor. ] You really wanna go there?
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His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
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Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
What's that?
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I am not left handed.
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
Gentlemen, it's war. )
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[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
Don't make me- pin you to the damn floor-
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You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
But.
Right now that part doesn't exist. )
Throw the white flag, man, I'll go easy on you.
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You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
Wearily, hoarsely: ]
I yield.
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Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
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And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
There are worse ways to go.
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( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
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Was that before or after the anvil with "ACME" written on it?
[ He inquires politely, relaxing into the floor and bracketing Ian's sides with his knees. The man isn't subtle - never has been, but that's just one of many things Nate loves about him - when he gets that sharp edge in his eyes, intent and soaked in mischief. ]
Or the case of dynamite?
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( He reprimands sternly, looking up again and oh-so-sneakily rucking Nate's shirt up a few inches while he's got the opportunity.
With a thousand-yard stare and all the manufactured grief he's capable of: )
I'll never forget the sound of A-flat minor.
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You know.
[ He says wryly, clenching and unclenching his fists for that brief pull on the hair in his hands. ]
This has got to be the most romantic conversation we've had to date.
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Uh-huh.
( He agrees easily, dipping down to absently, lazily kiss along the neat dips between muscle. )
Top three, no contest.
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Hard not to smirk at the ceiling, up until hot breath ghosts over his navel. ]
You're teasing.
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